“It’s a deal,” I reply, smiling back.

We swing back through the entryway, past a room that must be the kitchen, based on the flash of shiny appliances, and end up back on the terrace. Breakfast has been served, and Beck’s eyes jump up from his freshly served plate to meet my gaze as soon as I step out of the house. Erika’s taken the seat at the other end of the table, and I make my way around the back of her seat to sink down beside Beck.

“All good?” he asks me in a low voice.

I nod, studying the array of food spread before me. I tend to be a picky eater, and I could characterize my relationship with German cuisine as more misses than hits. There are some familiar dishes—waffles and what looks like a cheese tart with cherries—but the rest are foreign. There’s some sort of smoked fish topped with a swirled cream, a green soup sprinkled with crispy brown croutons, a salad scattered with seared meat, and rolls with crispy bacon and sauerkraut peeking out.

“That’s mackerel,” Beck informs me, nodding to the fish. “And zucchini soup with pumpernickel crusts.”

“Yum,” I remark, in what I mean to be a genuine tone. Beck chuckles under his breath, suggesting I may not have been completely successful.

“Weren’t they both on your list of most-hated German foods?” he asks.

I flush. I forgot about my “conversation” with Matthew Jr. in front of him. “That was before I decided to embrace the local culture,” I tell Beck.

He smirks. “Really?”

“Uh-huh,” I reply, forking some of the fish onto my plate and trying not to gag at the smell.

“I ran into Headmaster Schneider yesterday,” Erika states as she eats some of the green soup that’s apparently made from zucchinis. “He’s looking forward to the camp, Adler.”

“Good. I’ve got four guys from the club coming,” Beck replies.

“Herrmann?” Hans asks.

“Ja. And Ludwig,” Beck responds.

Hans nods in approval.

“What camp?” I inquire.

Everyone looks at me, but Beck is the one who answers. “It’s for the kids at my old football academy. We do a weekend clinic once a year. This year’s is next Sunday.”

“They trust you to teach children?” The words are out before I think them through.

Beck just grins, unperturbed. Erika doesn’t fully manage to hide her smile behind her water glass.

“We’re always looking for more volunteers, if you’re interested, Saylor,” Erika offers.

“Oh, um, I don’t really—I’ve never coached anyone before,” I reply.

Sophia pipes in with “If Adler can manage it, I’m sure you can.”

Yup, totally set myself up for that.